


Traveling Show

by grammarglamour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Circus, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarglamour/pseuds/grammarglamour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sheriff Mills shuts down all three traveling shows after a gruesome murder, Dean Winchester meets a mysterious stranger. They spend an afternoon together -- one that Dean can't shake from his mind. He meets the stranger again, with some surprising revelations, and sees a future beyond hardship and tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traveling Show

The day they found Anna Milton sliced open and lying in a creek was one of those anomalous June days, the kind that seemed to jump forward in time, on loan from August. The sun blazed down and the heat turned humid and unbearable by eleven in the morning. Dean had been tending to the horses, and the back of his neck was already prickling with more than sweat. The Hunter Family Traveling Show had experienced a colossal cock-up in scheduling, and they ended up rolling into Sioux Falls, South Dakota, the same week as the Angelic Aerialist Artists and the Daredevil Canine and Equine Paradox. The last time this happened, a clown had gotten his leg broken and the Hunters lost an entire tent. They’d all been in town three days, and already there had been fights breaking out at taverns, at shops in town, and in the outskirts where the shows had set up their tents. So Dean was on edge, which he knew wasn’t any good because it kept the horses on edge too. But something about that June morning left a different sense of unease, the neck-prickling and a metallic taste on his tongue. 

It should have all been familiar. After all, it was the summer season, the main bulk of their tour. They tended to stick to the middle part of the country; the coasts were too cynical for anyone to enjoy the simple pleasures of knife-throwing, clowning, trick-riding, and dogs jumping through hoops. The middle states, though, were the bread and butter of the Hunters. That was where people appreciated what they did, where a traveling show like theirs had a place. Now, it would be another story if they all tried to put down actual roots and buy property, but if they only stayed a week or two, the towns they blew into were happy to see them. Dean was always particularly amused by the innocence of the children, the ones who came up to him after shows or if they saw him in town, asked how they could become knife-throwers too, whether or not they could come with him. If their parents were with them, a momentary flash of fear struck through their eyes, silently begging Dean not to steal their children. Dean always nodded genially at them, maybe winking, before crouching down to tell the little ones that if they ate all their vegetables, minded their parents, and stayed in school, they could be knife-throwers one day. He never mentioned days like this, shoveling horse shit in 90-degrees-plus-humidity. 

They set up their camp like a town within a town, the lorries and trailers that they dragged over hill and dale providing most of a circle that was attached to their modest show tent. The horse canopy and the dog canopy rounded it out. Inside the circle was where the performers and stagehands set up their living tents. Maybe the size of a large room, high enough even for Sam to stand in, neither human nor beast lived in luxury with the Hunter Family Traveling Show.

The real Hunters had been lost to memory. Even any equipment they had left behind had been used up and discarded along the wayside. All that was left was the name. They didn’t have big business backers, like the Aerialists and the Daredevils did. They did it all on sheer gumption and luck. 

His brother Sam sauntered over to the canopy where Dean was forking hay into the pens for the horses. He absently stroked the muzzle of one of the horses, thumb lingering on the wide nostril, its coarse hair and strange smooth skin. Sam had the look of a man up after a bout with fever, that dazed amazement that the world still existed. 

“You all right?” Dean asked. 

“Hm, yeah,” Sam said absently. He picked a carrot from the pile and handed it to Baby, Dean’s horse, a black mare that had little patience for humans other than the Winchesters. She snorted her appreciation and butted her lips against Sam’s hand. “It’s too hot out.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

Sam tinkered around in the makeshift stable. He helped Dean feed the horses and muck out the stalls. He brushed Bobby Singer’s ancient steed, Nova, looking a little more haggard than usual. There were only a few horses by then. Time was, they’d had nearly a dozen. But their numbers had dwindled and there was no need for that many. The ones that got old and died were never replaced – much like the people that had accompanied them. 

And then Jo Harvelle had burst in the tent, one apron string flapping behind her, her blond hair coming loose from its thick braid. She panted as she stood in the doorway, hand on her side. 

“One of the Aerialists,” she said. “Got killed. Murdered.” 

Sam dropped the load of horse manure he’d been shoveling, caught the shovel just in time before it fell into the mess. “What? How? Where’d you hear this?” 

“Garth and Rufus was in town making sure the damned Daredevils didn’t strip down our posters again, and he heard some fellas talking about it at the post office.” 

They went out into the camp, and everyone was milling about, whispering. Everyone knew what it meant. The law would be breathing down their necks soon enough. Jo’s mother, Ellen, who was really everyone’s mother at this point, gathered everyone in the mess tent. Even with the door flaps open, it was stinking hot in there. Dean knew he and Sam weren’t helping, reeking as they did with sweat and horse shit, but this was bigger than the tenuous threads of decency they lived by. Rufus Turner stood next to her, arms across his chest, hand over his wide, square face. Garth was nowhere to be seen. 

“All right, here’s what we know: A girl got killed. She was one of the Aerialists. Name was Anna Milton. Any of you all know her?” 

Dean’s throat went dry and Sam’s elbow dug into his ribs. Of course Dean knew her – biblically. They’d shared an evening a few years back, the last time the touring paths of the Hunters and the Aerialists had crossed. He elected not to mention it to Ellen, leastways not in front of every-goddamn-body. Might catch her later, but he sure as hell wouldn’t admit to a roll with an Aerialist in front of this crowd. Granted, he was doing better than Sam – Sam had gotten carnal with a Daredevil the previous summer. 

_Goddamn, that is a tragedy._ Rivalries be damned, a girl like Anna just plain didn’t deserve that kind of an end. She was delicate as a bird, graceful, beautiful and strange in ways Dean had rarely seen in this world. Killing a person like that was an extra sin. 

“I know ain’t none of you done this,” Ellen said, “but you know how the law’s gonna be with this one. They’re going to be looking where the sun don’t shine here. When they come calling – and they will come calling – you’ll need to be on your best behavior.” 

“Aw, Ma, do we gotta?” Gabriel asked from the thick of the crowd. 

“You most of all,” she said, pointing at him. 

She dismissed them, and of course most everyone swarmed Rufus, asking him what he’d seen and how he’d heard and whatever else. He waved them off, scowling, muttering that he just heard it when he was in town. 

“Go on, git,” he said, shooing everyone away. He disappeared into his tent, the flap snapping angrily after him, as good as a door-slam.

The general consensus was that it was one of the Daredevils. Had to be. Gabriel breezed through the crowd. He was a funny one – expert illusionist and performer. He was one of the rare folks who soaked up the attention from the crowds, who fed on their excitement and bewilderment at his shenanigans. Dean had rarely seen him without an ironic smirk on his lips, a mischievous plan forming behind his eyes. But as they all scattered back to their chores, the buzz and chatter turning to poor dead Anna Milton, Dean couldn’t help but think he saw a hint of true discomfort on Gabriel’s face. 

“Better get that barn in good order, work out the horses a little, huh?” Sam asked, slapping him on the back. It wasn’t about the barn or the horses, Dean knew that. It wasn’t even about getting ready for the show. It was about that beautiful, dead girl in the river.  
***

It was late in the night when Garth came back, stinking drunk, weaving through the family entrance to the camp. Dean’s tent was closest, and he heard it, heard Garth come in with a clatter and a muffled curse. He went outside and guided Garth over to his tent, sat him down on his cot. 

“Ain’t seen you like this in a long while,” Dean said, undoing Garth’s boots. He took them off and the smell of unwashed socks knocked him back a couple inches. He got up, pulled up the empty crate that served as a chair. 

“I seen her,” Garth said. “I seen the dead girl.” 

“Dammit, Garth,” Dean said, slapping his knee. “What’d you go and do that for?” 

“Those fellas was talking about it at the post office, and suddenly, everyone rushed down to the river, trying to race the law. I got swept over to it and I saw her. Just for a minute before the sheriff come by and shoo all the looky-loos away, but I saw her. She was – covered in blood. Her guts was out, Dean. And her eyes was still open. I’d never met her before, only heard about her. And her eyes was this kind of brownish purple color. Did you know that?” 

Dean swallowed, his throat thick with spit. “Yeah, I knew that.”

He could picture it, too clearly, could imagine the way her blood had probably mixed with her hair, indistinguishable in the unforgiving summer sun. He’d worked in a slaughterhouse one terrible summer when he strove to be the only kid who ever ran _away from_ the circus, and he’d never forget the stink of gutted animals. Thinking of her laying there, smelling like that, made him sick. He swallowed it down, acidic and yellow. 

“I shouldn’t have gone,” Garth said. “And I spent half my damn wages on liquor.” 

“Can’t unwind that clock, though,” Dean said. He stood, put the crate back where he found it, even though he doubted Garth would care too much. 

He made it back to his own tent, legs shaking, heart thumping a fierce staccato that vibrated all down his ribs. It was a terrible way to go for anyone, but Anna had been such a smart, sweet, beautiful girl that it seemed worse for her. Maybe it wasn’t right for him to think that way, but he could not stop himself. 

He lay awake in his cot most of the night, tossing and turning and punching at his pillow. The set-up was never comfortable, but least of all then, his summer blanket oppressive on him and tangling up in his legs. His pillow smelled like sweat and drool. 

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, the tent flap opened, and Sam was standing there, blocking the whole thing. His tent was barely two feet from Dean’s. They heard everything about each other’s lives, usually more than they wanted. 

“You all right, Dean?” 

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, lit the lamp by his bed. “Can’t sleep.” 

“Nothing new there,” Sam said, coming to sit on the edge of Dean’s cot. 

The cot was old, squeaky. Dean felt it bend under Sam’s weight, and thought that if there was one way for this day to get worse, a broken cot would absolutely be it. 

“Garth saw her body,” he said for an explanation. 

Sam sucked in a ragged breath, shook his head. “Knowing Garth, he wasn’t shy about details.” 

Dean shook his head. “No, and he was drunk to boot.” 

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep after that, either.”

They sat in silence a moment. The camp was hushed, but it was never fully quiet at night. There were a couple dozen people at any given time who traveled with the Hunters, none of them particularly monastic in nature. He could hear the chorus of hacking coughs, of sexual congress, of arguments attempting to remain somewhat under wraps. 

People got killed in traveling shows on occasion, usually in the line of duty. Aerialists fell; knife throwers misjudged; animal trainers got mauled. But murder was a whole other ball of wax.  
***

The law came calling, as predicted. Sheriff Mills was eminently fair, but tough. A person had to be to be the first female sheriff in one’s constituency. As she stood at the family entrance to the camp, head together as she talked with Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle, Dean saw a glimpse of the future. Ellen stood there in shapeless coveralls, dirt streaking her face, a brilliant green kerchief tied over her hair, knotted underneath in a huge, practical bun. Bobby stood next to her, arms crossed, glaring at the Sheriff, spitting chew to the ground as boldly and sardonically as he would in front of any man. Sheriff Mills paid no heed to this, did not indicate if it offended her delicate sensibilities, nor indeed, if she had any sensibilities to offend. She herself was wearing wide-legged trousers and a men’s shirt, her hair pulled back into a braid down her back. 

The sun was creeping up the sky, heating as it went. In a couple hours it would be unbearable, and all Dean wanted was to sneak off to the nearest body of water, strip down, and go swimming. But that couldn’t happen, because all he’d be able to see if he went there was Anna’s dead body and open eyes. He hadn’t witnessed it firsthand, and maybe that was even worse, his imagination taking it even further than the horror already possessed. 

The rest of the performers milled about in a surprisingly thin imitation of people doing work – alarming, considering they made their livings entertaining people through show and theatrical façade. Even Sam succumbed to it, and Dean disbanded their practice when he distractedly threw a knife that landed far off its mark, lodging into a bale of hay next to Dean. 

He understood. He was still shaken, himself, but it didn’t stop him from slapping the knife into Sam’s hand and muttering, “Pull yourself together.” 

They wandered into Dean’s tent, casually as they could muster, though to the outside observer, it was probably the opposite of casual. When they got there, they discovered Gabriel standing there, ear pressed to the canvas. Dean would be setting his tent up away from the family entrance when they moved on, that much was sure. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “This was the best you could come up with?” 

He was about to make another joke, something about Gabriel losing his magic abilities, but stopped short. Gabriel still looked frightened, forehead drawn, all traces of humor gone from his usually lively face. 

“Do you know something, Gabriel?” Sam whispered. 

“No. Probably not. Maybe. Look, you know by now that asking questions ain’t the way to curry favor with people. Don’t forget that. Understood?” 

“Loud and clear,” Dean said. 

Gabriel made for the door, but Dean caught his arm as he passed. “Nah, you can stay.” 

“Thanks,” Gabriel said. 

All they could make out was low murmuring until Ellen bellowed, “Come on out, then. Like you ain’t been listening at every damn nook and cranny.” 

Like chastised dogs, they crept out of tents and from behind bales of hay. They all gathered where Ellen, Bobby, and the Sheriff still stood. Bobby looked like he was ready to spit nails. 

“Good day everyone,” Sheriff Mills said genially, waving at them all. She smiled bright as the sun but was met with stony silence. “Now, I want to say, I appreciate the work you all do, and we sure love having you in our town. I mean that. As you know, a performer from one of the other traveling shows was found dead yesterday.” 

“And if you’re looking any farther than the Daredevils’ tent, you’re looking in the wrong place,” a voice called out. There was a murmur and all eyes turned to Rufus Turner, scowling, arms crossed, looking madder even than Bobby. 

“Sir, that is a mighty big assumption—”

“Well, no one here would have done it, and no one in the Aerialists is going to kill one of their best performers, now are they? Who’s that leave? Unless you want to look at your own townspeople.” 

“Watch yourself, Rufus,” Bobby warned. 

“Like you ain’t thinking the same thing.” 

“That’s as may be, but I got enough sense not to say it.” He spat on the ground and shook his head, muttered, “Idjit.” 

“Gentlemen,” the sheriff said. “We are certainly looking into all leads. So if you know anything, Mr.—?” 

“Turner. Rufus Turner.” 

“Mr. Turner. If you have any information, please be so kind as to share it.” 

“It’ll be my first stop after the bookie.” 

Sheriff Mills nodded and looked about a split second away from smiling before clearing her throat and getting serious again. “Now, in light of this, we are asking that all traveling shows postpone their performances—”

A roar went through the assembled crowd, the whole company of the Hunters, boos and hisses and fists thrown in the air. Mills shushed them best she could, which still left a few harsh whispers floating through the crowd. 

“I’m asking for postponement,” she said, any Midwestern sweetness gone from her voice. “But I can change that to cancellation, and I can sure as you’re born change it to total prohibition from performing in this county again.” 

Bobby looked madder than a wet hen as she said that, while Ellen looked resigned to it, which left Dean believing there might have been some negotiation happening and that a massive knock-down drag-out was in store for Bobby and Ellen tonight. 

Dean just shook his head. Sam, too, seemed quietly resigned. To the townspeople where they visited, circuses and shows were amusements. But for the people that put them on, they were a livelihood. No shows meant no tickets sold, which meant no money earned. Some folks sent money back to families; others were saving up to leave the life. Everyone had their reasons. The Depression wasn’t far behind them and another war with Germany seemed too painfully close. People were just trying to do right by themselves or their families before it all started to wash downriver again. 

Mills departed after that, leaving the madding crowd, the disappointed muttering, the shock and sadness. They were already reeling. The Aerialists may have been rivals, but everyone felt for their loss nonetheless. Canceling shows was just another turd on the pile.  
***

In the end, going to the water won out. Even though he still saw Anna every time he closed his eyes, the sun was high and the air was close like a blanket around his shoulders. With no show to do and the horses already fed, there was nothing left for it but to sneak off. 

He saddled Baby up, and she whinnied triumphantly as if to say, _I knew you couldn’t do it without me, whatever it is._ Jo tried to stop and question him on his way out of camp but he just called over his shoulder that Baby was antsy and he was taking her for a ride. As if to prove his point, she shot off at a faster clip than he’d have liked. It took him by surprise, but he got her to slow a bit soon enough. 

He hadn’t seen Anna in years, not since that night they shared together. It was in summer, a dry one. The Aerialists and the Hunters were coming from opposite ends of the country, meeting in the sweltering expanse of Missouri. It was one of the first times he’d ever encountered the Aerialists personally. Their reputation for cold aloof superiority had proved deserved, but then there was Anna. 

The Aerialists were all full of grace and full of themselves. They had discipline that no other troupe seemed to know. Anna seemed the most human of them, seemed like she might have one foot out of the tent and in the real world. Dean had been traveling around since he was four, since his mama had died in the house fire, and he had seen plenty of performers come and go. And hardly a one of them could ever survive outside this little enclave. For Anna to have the strength it required, even a glimmer of it, even if she never acted upon it, why, that was something special. 

He went out of town a little ways, sticking to the back roads. Sioux Falls wasn’t exactly bustling, but it was enough that he wouldn’t just ride a horse down the main street. Baby didn’t much like towns, preferred the open grassy expanses of the American landscape. For that matter, so did Dean. So he went the opposite direction of town, found a little lake that didn’t look to be a part of anyone’s fields, and led her along. She was happy for the ride, the sun blazing down on her shiny black coat, making it glisten like lacquered wood. She stopped at the edge of the water, under a massive oak tree, snorted and shook her head. 

“This where you want to stop?” 

A tip-tap of front hooves. 

“All right, then.” 

He slid off her back with practiced ease, led her to the edge of the lake. She immediately began lapping up water. He scratched her between her ears, and she shook her head, spraying him. He laughed at her and patted her neck before finding a shady spot to disrobe and lay his clothes. 

He wondered if others among the Hunters did this when they toured in the summers. They often went in groups, of course, and that was a good time. But to be alone, away from the close quarters and the life they lived, to be out in the purity of nature, down a road, just him and Baby – those were the moments Dean lived for. He tried to forget poor, dead Anna and just concentrate on the cool water. 

He knew it was best to take a running jump into the water and immerse himself fully, but he couldn’t resist the delicious tension that came from going in slow. Feet first, let them warm as they got used to the water, then up to the knees, and then finally, diving in. The lake was small, really more like an overgrown pond. Trees grew around it, lush and green, the leaves shiny in the sunlight. They looked like they might drip with juice if he squeezed them, and he wished he could take a handful and crush it between his fingers like overripe berries. 

Finally, he was in the water up to his thighs, the warmer surface water lapping around him and teasing him, the water at his feet colder than before. Now was the time to dive in, and he did, holding his breath and then flinging himself into the water. He dove down deep, until he couldn’t really see the light from the surface any longer, and then pushed himself up, up, and up out of the water again. The light took on that over-bright white hue, the edges of his vision washing out like paint on an old farmhouse. 

He whooped into the vast stillness before him, his voice flitting away over the grass and trees like a cloud. He had propelled himself about halfway across the little lake, arms and legs working to keep him afloat. His feet didn’t touch the bottom, and that freefall sensation left him with a thrilling uncertainty. He went under again, dove deeper, tried to see if he could touch the bottom. He managed to brush his fingertips against the smooth silt at the bottom, surprised to feel the way it kicked up under his touch. It was like a wet polished stone at first. Then his lungs started to burn, and the adrenaline kicked in, jettisoning him up to the surface again. 

He burst through the surface of the water with a splash, and the first deep inhalation of breath made him light-headed and giddy, like standing up after too much whiskey. It made him laugh, which he did far more loudly than he normally would. 

He swam back to shore, sprawled out on the grass, let the sun warm him. Baby had wandered off a ways, nibbling on grass. She was getting old, her muzzle going gray, her gait slowing down. He wished he could give her a better life for what was left of it. She should have a barn and a pasture to herself, should only have to go out on occasional rides instead of having to be part of his act with Sam. The traveling wasn’t easy on her, he knew. It wasn’t easy on any of them. But then, it was all any of them knew. 

The sun was high and warm, and he soon fell asleep to the drone of insects and the light breeze through the grass. He’d drifted into a dream, a common one he had in times of uncertainty or fear. There were variations, but the gist of it was an accident during a show, Dean miscalculating and throwing a knife into Sam’s gut. There was always a fire that broke out, then, like the one that had killed their mother. This time, of course, he saw Anna flitting in the corner of his eyes in this dream, like a mouse or a shadow disappearing around a corner. She was the distraction that caused him to throw off. 

In the distance, Baby whinnied, which woke Dean from his brief sunlit repose. He sat up, followed her gaze off into the distance. Not too far from where he lay, a man stood. He had unruly brown hair, a white shirt buttoned all the way up, despite the heat, black slacks, and a blue necktie. He looked more like he was going to church than to a swimming hole. He froze when he saw that Dean was awake and staring at him. 

Dean scrambled up, put on his trousers. He himself did not mind running around naked, but he figured the other man might mind if he did that. Once somewhat clothed, he called out to him. 

“Water’s nice. I fell asleep a moment, but I ought to get back.” 

The man came closer, and Dean was mighty grateful he’d elected to put his trousers back on. He was handsome, uncommonly so, which brought forth certain urges that Dean found himself having every now and again. He shifted on his feet, crossed and uncrossed his arms, tried to get a read on the fellow as he walked toward him. The man had a certain effete bearing that sometimes indicated similar predispositions as to what Dean currently felt. But it was difficult to know, and he had miscalculated enough times with enough disastrous results to leave him erring forever on the side of caution. 

“I’m sorry,” the man said when he was closer. “I saw the horse, but didn’t see you there. I was worried she might have gotten away from someone. She obviously belongs somewhere.” 

“In the throne room of a castle, so she thinks,” Dean said. 

Baby, sensing she was the subject of conversation, canted over to him and nudged his ear with the tip of her nose. He patted her gently and she shook her head as if to say he couldn’t sweet-talk her that easy. 

“If only we could have the self-confidence of horses, huh?” the man asked. His voice was so strange, like a foreigner trying to suppress an accent. Underneath the practiced restraint, a deep timbre shook. 

“Yeah,” Dean managed to say, his own voice cracking a little. If asked, he would have blamed the heat. He cleared his throat, stuck out his hand. “Name’s Dean Winchester.” 

“Nice to meet you, Dean. I’m Castiel.” He shook Dean’s hand, his fingers rough and surprisingly strong for such a wiry fellow.

“That ain’t a name you hear every day.” 

“Indeed not,” Castiel said solemnly. 

“Well, if you came out here to swim, this is a nice little spot. The water’s good.” 

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Castiel said. 

The air between them took on a charge, the kind of throat-clenching expectance of waiting for a storm to break. He lowered his lids, revealing an obscenely dense promulgation of eyelashes set demurely around them. Dean knew, _knew_ he had not miscalculated. 

“I had been getting ready to leave,” Dean said, throat dry, “but I could be persuaded to stay a while.” 

“I really just came over to check on that horse,” he said. “I didn’t – I mean, I ought to get back—”

“Sure, of course. Or I can scram. I know some people like to swim alone,” Dean said, nodding more vigorously than the situation truly warranted. 

Castiel looked him up and down, eyes lingering on Dean’s chest, his arms. He wasn’t a Greek statue by anyone’s account, but he was solid. He knew from experience that both men and women found him appealing. Even if he himself could not understand it, he had his evidence. He straightened up under Castiel’s gaze, held the other man down with his eyes. After all, he could tell even with clothes on, that Castiel possessed a certain feminine litheness that Dean appreciated in a variety of contexts. He wanted it, powerfully. 

“Well, maybe a quick swim,” Castiel acquiesced. 

Dean reached out, slapped him on the shoulder, ran off back toward the water, shedding his trousers along the way. He burned in the sunlight with hope and unexpected desire. This was something he wanted more than he would ever admit to himself, something that most times took so much goddamn work to find. 

He dove back into the water, swam out to the point where his toes just grazed the silty bottom, and turned around. Castiel stood at the shore, his necktie in his hand, staring at Dean just a few feet away. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “No one’s out here, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell on you.” 

“I don’t do this – I mean, not often. I mean – oh, damn.” 

Dean fought his way through the water and came back to the shore. He emerged slowly, so as not to spook Castiel. As soon as his body came out of the water, Castiel’s eyes were on him and the electricity in the air was back. He breathed it in, let it energize him. Castiel stood perfectly still as Dean closed in on him, took the necktie from his hand, tossed it back away from the water. 

“You could jump in with all your clothes on,” Dean said, reaching out to touch his fingertip to the top button on Castiel’s shirt. “But I don’t think that would be too much fun. For either of us.” 

Castiel’s breath hitched, rattling out of him slow and cold. “You’re probably right.” He put his fingers to the top button and Dean nodded in encouragement. Then he took a deep breath and disrobed, right there, lighting quick, in front of Dean, as if to keep himself from losing nerve. 

Dean smiled, turned around, and raced back into the water with Castiel leaping in behind him. He didn’t look back, just trusted his new friend to follow him. He led them out to that drop-off point, that delicate ridge between shore and oblivion. Castiel crashed into him, water dripping from his hair and those eyelashes that framed strikingly blue eyes. His gaze bore an uncommon intensity, a sense that he looked not only at something, but into it and all around it. Dean shifted a little under the scrutiny. 

Now that they were there, out in the water, there was that moment of uncertainty. This guy was probably some churchy local, too innocent or naïve to understand what he was doing. Or worse, he might be the sort who grappled with this part of himself, hated it, thought it made him less of a man. Dean had met those types before. Hell, for a stretch of time, he had been that type. And while now he only resented it some of the time, he had at least come to the realization that it was his nature. Why his nature had to be something so unlike what most other men seemed to want, he wasn’t sure, but there it was. It did him no good to treat it like it was any other man’s problem but his own.

He let the moment pass, splashed Castiel good-naturedly, just to see what he would do. The other man looked surprised, perhaps a little affronted, before gathering himself and splashing back. This went back and forth a few minutes. It was amusing, but Dean wished they would get on with whatever they were to get on with. And then, Castiel pulled him by the waist, into the shallow water, immersing them both. They grappled like this, each trying to find purchase on the slippery sand. 

As they wrestled, Dean let his hand slip down to Castiel’s hip, creep over to gently rest on his behind. Castiel stopped. They both stopped, as still and heavy as the summer air, their heads just above the water. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I didn’t mean to.” 

He tried to pull away, but Castiel grabbed his wrist. “I know more than I look like I know.” 

Dean had to laugh at that. “All right, fair enough.” 

Castiel moved his hand, pulled Dean close. They were pressed close together, cocks half-hard against each other. A little shift here, a slide there, and both of them were at full attention. 

God, this feeling. It coiled and pulsed in Dean’s belly, from his navel to his thighs, this need. He had sex with plenty of women, and it was so good sometimes that he could hardly breathe for thinking about it. But then there was this, the feeling of a body with hard, flat planes of muscle instead of soft curves. It was different, not better or worse, just a whole separate set of sensations. And this particular one, this stranger with eyes the color of a Western sky, was like something out of a dream. 

They brought each other off with their hands, their legs, their bellies. They rubbed together like twigs stuck in an eddy, until that final moment. Dean went rigid against Castiel, who was still in the thick of it, gripped one hand on Castiel’s hip, the other on his own cock. His climax shuddered through him and left him weak and depleted, slumping against Castiel. He made a half-hearted attempt at helping the other man along, but he found it difficult to curl his hand around Castiel’s cock. He didn’t need much help, as it turned out, similarly going rigid before relaxing and sighing against Dean’s neck. 

They made their way closer to shore, laying in the shallows, letting the sun warm them while they regained their strength. 

“You live in town?” Dean asked. 

“No, I – I’m not from here,” Castiel said. 

“Oh yeah? Where you headed to?”

“Around.” 

“Good answer. Me too.” 

They dozed in the sun a while. Dean had to admit – having a few days off was going to be nice, despite the circumstances. That just didn’t happen too often. 

“I ought to head out,” he said, regretting it. 

“I should do the same,” Castiel said. 

They rinsed off in the shallow water, sluicing it over themselves. Dean loved the way the drops caught the light. They were so pure. 

He and Castiel both lingered by their clothes, dressing slowly, not quite meeting each other’s eyes, but trying their damnedest to drink in as much of each other as they could. Finally, dressed, Dean called Baby over from where she had wandered. 

“I really did come by to check on the horse. Initially.” 

Dean smiled, cuffed Castiel’s ear. “No need to explain.” 

Castiel headed off across the field, back from the direction he appeared, and Dean pulled himself up onto Baby’s back. She snuffled and shook her head before heading off at a slow walk. 

Dean couldn’t help but turn his head to watch the figure of Castiel get smaller and smaller as he headed in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, head down. He reminded himself that it was nice, it was an unexpected bright spot on a dark moment, but it was nothing more.  
***

Back at the camp, Gabriel and Sam were sitting on upturned crates just inside the entrance, passing a bottle back and forth. Gabriel looked grim, which was unlike him. In place of his usual churlish smile, his face had set in lines of worry. Dean nodded to the two of them, took Baby back to the horses’ tent with Nova. She butted his shoulder with her nose, snuffled a little at being put back in the tent. 

“Hey,” he admonished, swatting her nose. “Mind your manners, missy.” 

He walked back to where Sam and Gabriel sat, a cloud of dust kicking up behind him. He found another crate, pulled it up, gestured for the bottle. Gabriel handed it to him without a word and he took a long pull. 

“Everything okay?” 

Gabriel put on an ersatz smile that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes. Dean said nothing about it. “Everything’s just fine, sweet pea.” 

“Where have you been?” Sam asked. He had that suspicious squint he wore when he cottoned on to one of Dean’s schemes. 

“Took Baby for a jaunt, that’s all.” He handed the bottle back to him, as though that would satisfy whatever curiosities he harbored. 

It did not. 

“Long jaunt.” 

Sam was the brains of the operation, as far as Dean was concerned. Sam was the one who tried to get out, even took college classes for a while. He was the only one Dean had ever met in the life who could even make an attempt at straddling both worlds. The rest of them were broke beyond all repair or reckoning, Dean himself included. Sam, though. He might have made it. Dean swallowed back these thoughts, his mouth hot and tasting of rotgut. It was him who had gone to collect Sam, years back. 

“Well it’s a nice day, and I didn’t have anything else to do. Jesus, Sam, give it a rest, would you?”

He gave Dean that _this isn’t over_ glare, chose instead to take a swig of whiskey. Dean could ask questions of his own, such as why he was sitting there nursing a bottle of whiskey with Gabriel, but he elected not to. 

The camp swirled around them in a slowed down molasses version of the usual activities, like a phonograph winding down, the noise drawing out. The company bustled about and did their tasks in that languid way produced by indirection, humidity, and shock. Some sat, as Dean, Sam, and Gabriel did, on crates or bales of hay outside their tents. Rufus Turner stood at the door of his quarters, smoking a cigarette and looking out on the scene as if he doubted the veracity of the thing. 

And through it all like a poisonous wind fluttering tree leaves, everyone was talking about dead Anna Milton, about the perfidy of the Daredevils, of the presumptuousness of the law. Times were still tough, after all, despite Mr. Roosevelt’s changes, despite people going back to work and having the scratch for a ticket to a show. A week of shows canceled was a lot lost to a lot of folks, and why? Dean knew the score. Had it been some fresh-faced local girl, everyone’s tents would already be piles of smoldering ash. But no, it was one of the out-of-towners, one of these freaks. So it was this. Dean wished he had a word of encouragement or something for the crew, but he had none. 

Drinking like this was depressing him, the whiskey making him too warm. He slapped Sam on the shoulder, went off to find Bobby. There was usually something that needed doing, some engine that needed fixing or what have you. 

As soon as he left, the hurried strains of a conversation swept back up. Curiosity seized him like dyspepsia, but he would not intrude. For if he were to ask questions of his brother, then his brother would surely deem it fair game to ask the same of him. He’d always wondered what would happen if Sam asked about where he went sometimes. It wasn’t like with women. He always hinted, at the very least, when he found a woman to spend some time with. But when he scratched that other itch, he surely did not. He knew his brother to be eminently fair, smart, far more likely to accept new ideas than Dean himself. Would he think his brother less a man for wanting it with other men? Would he be disgusted? He had put up with a lifetime of Dean and his humors, of sickness and bodily functions and drunken meanness, but could this be more repulsive than all those other things? He hoped he never had to find out.  
***

As predicted, Bobby noticed a weird clunk in one of the trucks, and he didn’t want to deal with it himself, so he handed it off to Dean. 

“You all right?” he drawled. “You only ever come sniffing around for work if you’re out of sorts.” 

“I’m fine. Just, you know, feeling a little bowled over by recent events.”

Bobby eyed him and grunted a _harrumph_ before handing Dean the toolbox and leaving him to his work. Bobby understood these things, in ways Dean’s own father never had. John Winchester had been eaten up from the inside about what happened to his family. He had done as best by them as he could, but he didn’t have much to work with. And Bobby was a cantankerous old cuss, a drunk, and a lifelong troublemaker, but he at least managed a grasp on life and love that Dean’s father had never managed. He at least understood that you didn’t have to go around embracing those you loved, but you had to give them some kind of sign that anything they did mattered a tinker’s cuss to you. Dean’s father had never given any indication of that, save for the iron grip he kept on Dean and Sam, his insistence that they stay in the life long after it was the right thing for anyone. Dean got it, he really did. His mother had been from an old circusing family, one of the first, and she had never truly left it. In John’s mind, eroded by grief and drink, this was how he would keep his boys safe. Dean couldn’t say with certainty that he would do it differently if he were in his father’s position. 

The engine that Bobby had found for him to work on was in poor shape. He suspected – but would never say – that it was very likely Bobby had been quite intoxicated when he worked on it before. He laid out a bit of worn canvas, took the engine apart, yanking the nuts and bolts out, setting them on the cloth. It took him a solid couple hours to dismantle it, and he tried to focus as much as he could on the work at hand rather than Anna Milton or the handsome stranger he’d met at the lake earlier. He mostly succeeded in this endeavor, his mind only betraying him a time or two. 

He didn’t hear soft, tentative footsteps behind him until they were accompanied by a soft throat-clearing. He turned to see Jo standing there, a kerchief tied around her head, a rope of blond braid trailing out the back. 

“Benny wanted me to come tell you that supper’s ready.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “And you should come eat with us, if you ain’t too busy brooding like a fella in a English book.”

Dean looked down at the small bit of metal he was rubbing clean with a cloth. It didn’t quite shine, but it would do. “Awful big words he’s throwing out there.” 

She couldn’t suppress her smile this time, letting it shine out full-force. Times like that, Dean saw some path for himself, some time long past when he could have courted her, married her. Maybe they’d stay in the life, maybe they’d leave it, but whatever they did, they’d do it on their own terms. After all, her story – or that of anyone in the Hunters show – wasn’t all too different from his own. But then, that assumed that he wasn’t following into his father’s or Bobby’s footsteps toward earnest drinking, or that he didn’t need to occasionally couple with men, or any other number of things that made him too rotten for a fiery gal like Jo. 

“I can handle it,” she said, giving him the uncomfortable but pronounced sense that she knew what he’d been thinking. 

“Think so, huh?” he said, wiping his hands as best he could. He charged toward her and picked her up by the waist, hoisted her onto his shoulder. 

She laughed and pounded against his back, cursed a blue streak at him. He carried her back to the dining tent only because she let him. 

“Here he is,” Benny said, banging his heavy wooden spoon against a pot lid. Dean responded with a grunt, grabbed a bowl from the chipped stack, got in line behind a dazed and swaying Garth. 

Dean had rarely in his life had a meal that did not come en masse from a massive pot. Porridge, stews, beans, beans, and more beans. He occasionally snuck off and went to lunch counters in towns where they stopped, whatever place where rough workmen went to dine. There he would have a hamburger, a slice of pie, and coffee as jarring as motor oil down his gullet. These moments were rare, though. A brief thought flickered through his mind, imagined doing this in Sioux Falls and that beautiful stranger appearing there as he had at the lake, out of nowhere and just what Dean needed. In a situation removed from the possibility of sexual congress, there would be nothing left but to chat. 

Dean took a deep breath as if to blow away these ridiculous little thoughts he was having. He held up his bowl and Benny ladled in some stew. 

“What’s the matter with you, brother?” 

“Nothing,” Dean said, far too quickly and defensively. “Been working on an engine for Bobby most of the afternoon is all.” 

Benny grunted a low noise of disbelief at Dean, handed him a dinner roll, and scooted him along out of the line.  
***  
After dinner, when it was just him and Sam in the mess tent, Benny flopped down and swatted Dean with his apron. 

“I nominate you for dish duty.” 

“Benny, come on. I worked on—”

Benny waved a giant paw. “I know, I know. Worked on that engine for Bobby. But come on, do it as a favor.” 

He knew this had nothing to do with those damn dishes. Dean couldn’t hide from Benny, not like he could hide with other people. It was a funny thing in the life, keeping anything private. People talked and gossiped, or worse yet, they saw whatever cockamamie thing you were up to. Dean had learned to navigate it best he could, knew when to melt back into the shadows, when to come up and be the caddish lout, when to be the big brother. He had to trade off in certain ways on things, to get a lick of private time. But Benny didn’t indulge him these acts. He left Dean be when he needed, but there was no subterfuge around Benny. 

“You need my help?” 

Benny barely got the words out of his mouth before Sam had skedaddled off to parts unknown. Dean wasn’t the only one keeping secrets, of that he was sure. Benny just shrugged, took a flask from his pocket, downed a healthy measure, passed it to Dean. 

They went back into the kitchen part of the tent, the pile of dishes daunting and precarious. Bowls, pots, pans, utensils – all stacked and leaning. Benny took the coveted dryer’s position, leaving Dean to scrape the dishes, dip them in soapy water, then vinegar water, then clean water. The first tub was warm, the other two ice cold, though it felt all right on his hands after working on Bobby’s truck. It reminded him of the lake water, earlier in the day. 

“You got pretty out of sorts over this Anna girl getting killed.” 

Never one to mince words, good old Benny. 

“It’s a goddamn tragedy.” 

“You had, uh, an evening with her awhile back, didn’t you?” 

Dean nodded, plucked out the utensils from the pile of dishes, set them aside. He hated washing spoons. Food always hid out on the back of the handle or in the deep bowl. 

“But that ain’t the bee in your bonnet.” He wiped a towel across a plate, stared at Dean. 

“Good lord, Benny. What’s it matter?” 

“Well, for one thing, we’ll be up and running again soon, and we can’t have a distracted knife-thrower.” 

Dean wanted to laugh, because it was a fair point, but he refused to give Benny the satisfaction. “Shove it.” 

Benny elbowed him, winked. “Is it Jo? You was awfully chummy with her before supper.” 

“It ain’t Jo. Give it a goddamn rest.” 

“So there is someone—”

Dean slammed down the pot he was trying to rinse, sprayed water all over creation, turned to Benny. “Benny, you’re my closest friend that ain’t kin. Really, my only friend that ain’t kin. Will you please, for the love of God, change the topic?” 

Benny took his towel, wiped off his face where water had splashed him. “All right,” he said in the same tones he used on spooked horses. “Okay.” 

Dean scrubbed at the browned bits of vegetable stuck to the bottom of the pot, throwing the detritus in the slop bucket under the makeshift counter. It was disgusting and slimy, but at least it took his mind off of things. 

“We’re all torn up about that girl,” Benny said. 

“Yeah. She was nice.”

Dean nodded. Other times, he might have bragged, but not now. It seemed too crass, even for the likes of him. Benny nodded in return, settled into silence. Other times, he’d have asked for lurid details, volleyed back a story from his own past. But not now.  
***

After dinner, Sam came into Dean’s tent. He swayed a little with drunkenness – no minor feat, considering he was the size of a yeti. Dean had his lamp burning on the stack of empty crates that served as a bedside table. He had been laying there, thinking about the man he met on his little excursion. 

“You were gone a long time today,” Sam said. 

“I lost track of time. Fell asleep in the sun.” He turned to face the canvas wall. Through the fabric, he could hear Garth talking to Jo, talking about seeing the dead girl. He turned over again. 

“You go places sometimes. Without telling anyone. Without telling me. Where do you go, Dean?” He slumped down on the grassy floor, long legs drawn up, sweaty hair fanned out on Dean’s blanket, reddish and gold in the light from the lamp, the summer light that filtered in. 

“I just need time by myself,” Dean said. “That’s all. Don’t get sore over it.” 

“You looked different when you came back. Happy, maybe.” 

“It was a good ride, and I found a good swimming place. Maybe you and me and a couple other folks could go tomorrow. Lord knows we ain’t got nothing else to do until we move on.” He moved off his cot, sat next to Sam. “Got any more of that booze on you?” 

Sam reached in his pocket, pulled out the slim remains of the booze. Dean took it, finished it off, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He felt the booze run down him, like it went into his chest and lungs. It was hot and made him sweat instantly. The air was close in the tent, so he blew out the lamp, as if that would do a damn thing. 

“Why were you all chummy with Gabriel, for that matter?” 

Gabriel had joined the Hunters a while back, just showed up one day and made himself part of the family. He was a better clown than most of the clowns, did magic tricks, and was generally a wise-ass that bordered on annoying. Dean had grudgingly come to appreciate it, for his eyes lurked with a sense of profound trouble and loss. Dean respected men who kept their secrets. 

Sam shrugged. “No reason. Just got to talking.” 

Dean grunted vaguely. The alcohol had whetted his appetite, and he briefly wondered if he ought to scrounge for more. Someone usually had something they were willing to share, but it usually came at the cost of having to sit there talking to them, and that was something he could not abide just then. 

“Let’s go swimming tomorrow,” he said, trying to get his own mind off booze and Sam’s mind off whatever he had been asking around. “That’ll be fine, mighty fine.” 

Sam shrugged, the movement rocking the cot a little. “Sure thing.”  
***

Another couple days passed and the talk about poor, dead Anna Milton had died down. There was nothing to say, and everyone was sure it was the Daredevils. They knew that the law wouldn’t do a damn thing except shut the shows down and puff their chests. Woman sheriff or no, the law was always the law, wherever you went. It would be up to the Aerialists themselves to avenge her murder, and maybe that was as it should be. Maybe the law didn’t have a right to do it. After all, they existed out of society in every other way. They had their own laws, people in traveling shows did. 

They still felt it, but they weren’t talking about it, and that was a tidy summation of life with the Hunter Family Traveling Show. 

They ended up going to the picture show, Dean and Jo and Benny and Sam and even weird little Gabriel. All of them piled into the now-working truck, Dean driving and Jo crawling over Sam – sitting shotgun – to sit in the middle. Gabriel and Benny shrugged and climbed in the back, striking up a conversation because that’s just the sort of fellows they were, the sort of fellows who could talk to a bale of hay and get its whole life story. 

The air in the cab was close and thick with moisture, even with the windows down. Jo wore a thin cotton skirt, no stockings, and a pair of shoes that were clearly meant for little boys. She smelled of brown sugar and vanilla; likely she had escaped kitchen duty with Ellen and was on the run. Dean would catch hell for it, and he didn’t even care. They rode with the windows down and tendrils of her hair whipped his cheeks, tickled him, teased him. Moments like this, he wished he could bring himself to think of her that way. 

Over the wind blowing through the cab, the clunking of the car against uneven pavement, he heard Benny and Gabriel joking around in the background. He was glad. Gabriel had been off his usual axis, and while Dean wasn’t necessarily fond of him, he felt rather sorry for him. He was the odd man out, which was really saying something among the Hunters. Sam was always kind to him, but Sam was usually kind to people. 

He found a place to park down from the theater, and they walked there in a rowdy tumble. Jo jumped up and tried to steal Sam’s hat, which Gabriel laughed at so loudly that a small gathering of pigeons got scared off of the sidewalk. Dean laughed with them, feeling his tension that he’d been holding loosen in him like melting butter. 

It was a Thursday afternoon, a few school kids gathered around the theater. They were the kind of kids that were just a step away from the traveling shows, the kind of rough kids who always nodded in respect as any party from the Hunters passed them by. They might end up in the life someday. Some of them had the sort of strong arms made for rigging or hauling, faces already red, faces already hardened by the sort of truths that people who rode with shows had seen along the way. If they were hanging about a picture house in the middle of the day, Dean guessed they didn’t have a whole extended family doting on them or some such thing. 

The nice types they passed, mothers with their babies in strollers or toddling alongside them, cast the same disparaging eyes on the loitering youths as they did on the scruffy Hunters, on Jo’s bare legs and boy’s shoes, Benny’s scruffy beard, Sam’s unruly hair. Ah, well, Dean thought. Their loss. 

The picture they saw was dumb, but the theater had huge fans overhead that stirred the humid air. They sat in the balcony, in the cool darkness, the only ones up there. It was as fine a time as Dean could remember, with no shows to do or anything related to work. 

When it was over, they stumbled back into the sunlight, staggering a little with sleepy legs and shocked eyes. 

Gabriel was going on and on about the picture. Dean didn’t think it was so great, but Gabriel kept recounting every pratfall, dissecting the execution and the scenes overall, the jokes and gags. As he often did when his diminutive colleague was concerned, Dean tuned him out. It wasn’t nice, he knew, but sometimes Gabriel got on a tear and Dean couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore. Of course, when he got like that, Dean could only assume that he didn’t much care if anyone was listening or not. 

He was staring off into the distance at some brick building, one of those municipal buildings that looked too perfect to be real. Those places always baffled Dean, for he had such a hard time picturing anyone going into it, day after day, working. He barely noticed when Gabriel stopped walking and stopped his cavalcade of words, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Dean bumped into him, which jolted him out of it enough to start walking. He followed Gabriel’s gaze to the end of the street and found himself similarly short-circuited. For coming out of the building were three people in similar gray suits with crisp white shirts, and in the back, lagging behind ever so slightly, was Castiel. 

Gabriel and Dean both tried to play it cool, but they failed miserably. 

“What’s got you boys so riled?” Jo asked, loud, grating, in the quiet street. 

“Aerialists,” Sam whispered, nudging her. She snapped her jaw shut with an audible clicking of teeth. 

Benny started toward them and Dean had no choice but to follow. The Aerialists and Hunters had had their differences in the past, as all traveling shows had. Each group had its own quirks and niches, and they didn’t always play nice or see eye-to-eye on things. The Aerialists were rivals for seats, a group to be envied because they had big money behind them and costumes and actual skills. They were snobs, too, looking down on shows like what the Hunters did, which weren’t grand, but at least had heart. Still, they’d suffered a loss and Dean knew that there was a time for petty jealousy and this wasn’t it. 

“I’m awful sorry about Anna,” Benny was saying to one of them, a woman with a severe bun at the back of her head. 

“Thank you,” she said with a slight inclination of her head. 

Dean stared at the sidewalk, the weeds growing in the cracks of the pavement, the building behind them, the blue-white sky – anything except Castiel. Part of him thought he should have known. The buttoned-up demeanor, the churchy posture. Still, how could he have? There were plenty of folks just like that. For his part, Castiel was staring a hole in the pavement. 

Benny, Sam, and Jo had said their piece; Dean merely nodded vaguely. The Aerialists parted ways with an earnest “God bless you,” and it was only then that they noticed Gabriel was nowhere to be found. 

“Where’d he scamper off to?” Benny asked, not for the first time baffled at Gabriel’s ways. 

They looked up and down the street, finally heading back to the truck, where they found him sitting in the bed, knees drawn up, arms hanging loosely between them. His jaw was tight and his eyes nearly lifeless. 

Benny climbed up, slapped him on the back. “You all right?” 

“Yeah,” he said, trying to bring that signature smirk back to his face. He succeeded almost halfway. “Just, you know, didn’t want to deal with those jackasses.” 

“Aw, come on now, they had a terrible thing happen to them,” Benny said. “We had to show some kind of gesture.” 

Sam’s jaw was set in a way that told Dean he knew something that was left unsaid. That kid went through the poker game of life with his cards strewn all over the table. 

The ride back was solemn, the silence only broken when Jo said, “I wonder how old she was.” 

Dean did the math in his head, and he thought she might be a bit older than Jo, but he didn’t say, instead shrugging. It was already too close to home. He didn’t want to compound it. 

Soon as they got back to camp, Gabriel ran off and Sam was about to go with him, but Dean caught his arm, gave him that big-brotherly look that said he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Some help with the horses?” he asked. 

“Yeah, fine,” Sam sighed. 

It was stinking and hot in the horse tent, the air close, feeling like little bits of hay and hair were suspended. 

Baby and Nova were perfectly content in their makeshift stalls. 

Dean positioned himself between Sam and the door, planted his feet, crossed his arms. “So?” 

“Jesus, Dean! What is your problem?” 

“No problem, I just want to know what’s up with Gabriel and why he’s dragging you into it.” 

“You want to know what’s up with _me_? What _Gabriel_ is doing? Let’s try talking about what _you’re_ up to, man. You’ve done your share of running off and sulking and whatnot over the past few days. And don’t tell me it has shit to do with Anna Milton, because that’s a crock. You’ve done it before.” 

“I need some fucking time alone. Is that a crime?” 

Sam inhaled, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed to tiny slivers. “No, not a problem. But pretty rich coming from the guy who drove all the way to California to drag me back to this mess.” 

“I went out for an afternoon swim – I didn’t abandon my family and everything I’ve ever known to read a few dusty old books!” 

“I was preparing for law school, you twit.” His words came out quaking and clipped. 

Dean’s fingertips were cold, all the blood in his body seeming to rush to his face and ears and chest. Fear and anger and jealousy. Most of all, jealousy. He was jealous that Sam had the gumption to get out, to try and do something better than a traveling show. 

And to think: all he had wanted that afternoon was to sit in a darkened theater and watch a stupid picture about stupid people doing stupid things. 

They had had this fight before, and if they both stayed in the life, they’d have it again. Each time there would be a different catalyst. Each time, they would bring it out for different reasons and different ways, but it would always be there. 

Dean took a deep breath, even though it didn’t do any good. The air was so heavy, laden with hay particles, that it was a solid mass in his lungs. Hardly refreshing. His mind wandered to the cool water and Castiel’s warm, pliant body. 

“If you know something, you gotta say it. It’s our livelihood on the line here. We’re missing out on a week’s pay because the law thinks there’s a killer on the loose.” 

Sam snorted, headed for the exit. “Then _you_ go find him. Maybe he’s out for a swim, too.” 

The tent flapped closed behind him like the indignant ruffle of a bird’s wing. Baby snorted and Dean gave her a bruised apple from the bucket outside her stall. 

Outside, the sun was finally setting in that Northern summer twilight that isn’t so much a darkening of sky, but a draining of color.  
***

The order came down from on high – or from Bobby, at any rate, if that counted – that they’d be leaving a day early to head to Bozeman, Montana. The Sheriff had paid another visit, told Bobby and Ellen that no one from the Hunters was being investigated but no one would be allowed to put up their tents and run their shows.

“Well, who are they investigating, if they ain’t investigating us?” Rufus had called out when Bobby delivered the news. 

“She didn’t say,” Bobby replied. 

“I figured as much.”

“Shut up and go pack your shit, Rufus.” 

Dean and Sam had reached a delicate truce, both having done this dance to different songs at various times and knowing that they weren’t going to be rid of each other any time soon. Perhaps they never would. They learned long ago that they had to forget things, or they’d have nothing. They pulled together, helped Bobby and Ellen hitch up the trailers, make sure the trucks were running. Rufus was loading the tent, tent poles, and hardware that went along with it, grumbling the whole way about having to unload and load it without it ever having gone up. Sam attempted to mollify him with a joke and a helping hand, and Dean’s heart softened toward his brother a little more. 

By the end of the afternoon, the camp was a skeleton. There was little left standing except the personal tents. The grass was beaten down and flattened in rectangles where they used to be; clods of dirt dotted the field where tent poles had been planted and uprooted. The horses had left their mark in piles of shit and U-shaped hoof prints. The trailers and trucks sagged with the weight of equipment, tents, props, and all the accoutrements of a traveling show. Jo sat atop the tarpaulin-covered heap of her and Ellen’s belongings, waiting, the sun glinting down on her thick, gold braids. 

Dinner that night was scrounged leftovers, wieners on sticks, whiskey passed around in speckled tin cups. The sense of excitement prevailed, despite the difficulty of the preceding week. At the end of it all, to move onto a new town and do more shows was cause for celebration. Even Gabriel got back the old twinkle in his eye, pulling quarters from behind people’s ears. He and Garth did a little twangy musical number, a verse of which caused Ellen to clamp her hands over Jo’s ears while Jo laughed and batted her away. 

Dean sat a ways from the fire, too warm from the night air and the whiskey to enjoy it. Nights like these, the life was everything he wanted. Applause, oohs and aahs from the crowd, the feel of getting a mark so right that only you ever know it – those were nothing compared to a family of dozens and down-time laughter. 

The party was still in full swing, but he went back to his tent. He had a few things to pack up and he knew Bobby would be calling for him early in the morning. That was a drawback to being dependable. He stood, bid everyone good night, ruffled Sam’s hair, and wove his way through the camp to his tent. It was disorienting without their set-up, the little landmarks they kept for themselves from town to town. 

He flapped the tent open, fought with it a little in his drunken state, went to his bedside table, lit up his kerosene lamp. The tent flooded with a deep yellow glow the color of daisies in full bloom. It further tired him, eyelids drooping as he made for his steamer trunk. 

Then a cleared throat and a shadow moved from the dark corner of the tent. Dean must have been drunk not to notice this interloper, but once he realized it, he was quick enough in drawing his little blade from his boot. But the figure stepped fully into the cheerful circle that the lamp cast, and he saw that it wasn’t a stranger but Castiel. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Dean narrowed his eyes, stabbed the point of his knife into the swollen wood of his makeshift bedside table. The lamp wobbled and guttered with the movement. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I – I am not sure, to be quite honest.” 

Dean saw then that the man’s tie was crooked, that he wore a trench coat streaked at the bottom with smears of mud. His hair was unruly to the point of disgrace and a healthy film of stubble had blossomed over his face. He sighed, pulled Castiel over to the cot, sat him on the edge. He poured him some water from a jug into an empty jam jar that was, he hoped, mostly clean. 

“This must look awful rustic to you. I heard you guys have two full rail cars when you tour.” 

Castiel drank quickly, a dribble of water sliding down the corner of his mouth. “We have three now, as a matter of fact,” he said with a gasp when he finished. 

“Seriously, though. What are you doing here?” He tried to sound gentler, but he couldn’t tell if he had succeeded. 

“I – I wanted to – I saw you in town with the others. I should have put it together before when we – when we met by the pond. Dean Winchester. You’re known to us. You’re one of the best knife-throwers the Hunters have ever had.” 

“Thanks, I guess.” 

“I had prayed,” Castiel said, running his hand over his face, “even before Anna – I knew something was wrong within my troupe. She knew it, too.” 

This was too much for Dean. He hadn’t signed up for this. 

“What are you saying?” 

“I cannot blame the Daredevils or anyone else for her murder. It was someone within the company. I don’t know who—”

“Stop. Just stop. Don’t tell me this. Tell the Sheriff. I can’t do anything.” 

“You can let me join up with you here. I’ll – I’ll do whatever I have to. Clean up after the horses.” 

Dean smiled at that image and tried to picture Castiel doing that in his shirt and tie. “Well, that’s usually my job. Listen, though. You got two options: You can tell the law, and get them involved, or you can team up with someone in your own crew. You can’t pull me in on this.” 

In other instances, he would have been cruel. He would have said what he was thinking, which was that one splash in an out-of-the-way swimming hole did not an advocate make. But he couldn’t be cruel to this man, with those eyes that shone bright and blue even in the glow from the lamp. 

“I don’t want to pull you in on this,” he said, voice sharp and hissing. “I want out. I’ll end up like her. There is no justice in my circle.” 

Like a flash of lightning that illuminates a darkened sky, Dean saw a whole future playing out. He saw Castiel joining the Hunters, saw more days and nights like the one at the pond, saw the crowds loving him, whatever he did in the show. In a fleeting moment, it seemed plausible, even possible. 

Dean crouched in front of Castiel, pulled him down until their heads came together like two wooden bowls. “Castiel, that’s not my call. I don’t – we can’t just take people on.” 

“So I’ll audition.” 

Everything about Castiel spoke of a total ignorance about the lives of the Hunters, of what it took to travel with them. But then again, perhaps it was Dean who was ignorant. Perhaps they did just take people on and pick them up along the side of the road or in diners or bars or wherever hard-working people with itchy feet ended up. 

“Audition,” Dean said, the word floating out on a cloud of a laugh. 

“I know one of my relatives has been traveling with you,” Castiel said. 

“That so?” Dean said. He’d turned around, was rummaging through his trunk. He had a bottle of whiskey stashed away, he was sure. He’d been saving it for the long ride to Bozeman, but he thought he might need it sooner. 

Castiel came to stand next to the trunk, stiff and awkward in his own skin. His shadow even seemed to move rigidly from side to side like a nervous child waiting to use the restroom. 

“Yes, it is. My cousin Gabriel—”

Dean fell back on his ass, smarted his elbow on the corner of his trunk. “Gabriel?” 

Castiel nodded. 

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Dean shook his head. Of-goddamn-course. And leave it up to Sam to be in on this little bit of scuttlebutt, keeping it to himself like a true gentleman. 

Dean pushed himself off the ground, the tantalizing half-promise of whiskey forgotten. He dusted off the seat of his trousers, squared off next to Castiel. 

Anna Milton was dead, and Castiel wanted to take refuge with the Hunters for fear of his own people. Gabriel was an Aerialist, and Sam probably knew it. Dean saw more than an upright fuck in the shadows with a man. The world had gone topsy-turvy, more dizzying and dazzling than any act. 

Dean looked Castiel up and down, noticed things he hadn’t noticed before. Castiel held his right side a little too tight, favored his left leg. His shoulders seemed on the verge of pulling him downward. 

“What if they find you?” 

“We know how to stay hidden when we don’t want to be found. Gabriel managed it. None of the others know. I only found out because I – I followed you here after we saw you in town.” 

It was creepy, but also sweet, which Dean guessed was Castiel’s general gimmick in life. 

“I’m probably going to regret this,” Dean said, pulling Castiel in to kiss him lightly, the way he’d kiss a girl. “All right, well, you can’t get nowhere with the Hunters until you talk to Ellen and Bobby.” 

He went to the flap of his tent, held it open, and ushered Castiel into what remained of the Hunters’ camp. It had to be at least ten o’clock and the sun was barely setting in the distance, the midsummer hues of blue and purple and pink bleeding out, no clouds to be seen.


End file.
